Apologies for the technical difficulties. As promised, here it is in full.
A poster on this forum has mentioned that certain teachers would destroy your self confidence. I had mine destroyed alright. How long did it take? Twenty four hours. That's all. After one day, things began to go wrong.
New to first year, I was in room 5 and all of a sudden, a tall gangly teacher came in. He was Nial Haslett. He asked my teacher, "May I borrow a boy?" I was singled out and willingly went into room 4, believing that his intentions were honourable (fetch and carry stuff).
Once he had me in the room he stood me at the front of the class and said, "What class are you in?" "1C." "Some of your class have been writing on the desks in my classroom and you will tell me who they are!"
"I don't know. It wasn't me."
"What do you mean you don't know?!"
"I don't know who's been writing on the desks."
“YOU DO KNOW. NOW TELL ME WHO WAS WRITING ON MY DESKS?
He pointed to two desks in the fourth row and indicated they had been written on. What did he want? I wasn’t omnipresent in space and time and I certainly wasn’t looking over everyone’s shoulder.
Add to that, it was convention that we all had to sit in alphabetical order to help the teacher mark the roll. Adams; Allaway; Beggs; Berardi; Courtney; Crowe; Duddy and so on. So when you work that out, that puts a hell of a lot of desk space between me and the offending vandals. Not that he cared about that. Besides, after twenty four hours in that hell hole, it wasn’t enough time to get to know everyone. But more than that, there were two other boys in my class who were from the same primary school as I was, so the “tribal bond” with them was still unbroken.
“WHERE DO YOU SIT SON?”
I went down to my desk, which was in the second row from the right, fourth one back. With that, you might think he’d give up. Wrong!
“I WILL ASK YOU AGAIN, BOY. WHO…WAS…WRITING…ON…MY..DESKS?”
I can honestly say that even if my parents had cause to shout at me, it was nothing compared to the persistent shouts of interrogator.
At that point, I was reduced a gibbering wreck and I was in tears. I looked about the room and all I could see was a class of second years in a stunned silence. It seemed that this ogre wouldn’t give up and I was broken. At that point, I’d have said anything to get him to stop.
“I think it’s McCormick and McClure, sir.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU THINK? EITHER IT IS OR IT ISN’T!”
“Yes, sir.”
“GET BACK TO YOUR CLASS!”
I went back to room 5 and the next thing I knew, he followed me in.
“McCormick and McClure! OUT HERE NOW!
I asked myself what was wrong with this school? They caned me for telling the truth about late buses and now they subject me to mental torture over something that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Great, thanks a lot, Boys’ Model. I picked up my first piece of “emotional baggage”. I considered dumping it and all my other baggage in the corridor and running out the gate, never to return. But weighing up the pros and cons, what choice did I have? Somerdale or Cairnmartin? Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
If there’s a way to begin a campaign of vengeful bullying, that’s a good way to start. One of the above named vandals pushed me down the back stairs in the McNeilly building. I slammed into a wall. If I’d lost my footing, I may have lost my life, never mind my login. In addition, the same bully almost knocked me unconscious in M1 after throwing a sink stopper at me. Same in the library with a heavy book. He also loved to tell lies and squeal on me to Andy McMorran.
As for that lanky (insert name here), I last saw him at Aldergrove airport on July 20, 1986. He was waiting to go out on the same flight to Faro as I was. I didn't speak to him but I did curse him under my breath.